


Hunter's Moon

by SenoraKitty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, BAMF John, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Whump, Werewolf Sherlock, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenoraKitty/pseuds/SenoraKitty
Summary: Sherlock discovers that werewolves exist, and why is John taking this so well?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This thing practically wrote itself. I have no idea what's going on here, I'm just here for the ride. Rating has not been determined as I have no idea where this is going to go.

John slammed the door and slid down the solid wooden structure, his heart pounding at what he just witnessed. He jumped and scurried away on his hands and knees as the door gave a sudden lurch against his back. The sounds of an irate beast snarling and thrashing in the room divided by the scant inches of wood could be heard. John bit back a cursed cry, not wanting to draw the beast's attention. Sherlock, it had been Sherlock; the mad, cunning, genius detective had been throwing a tantrum, and the next moment he was writhing on the rug making sounds that John had only heard in his nightmares.

At first John thought Sherlock was having a seizure, and began to panic rushing over to ease his friend through it. It wasn't until he noticed the rhythm of the convolutions and the sick wet snapping of bone, as the dark haired detective squirmed, that John froze realizing what was happening. He just barely missed being noticed by the monster before he made it out the door.

Taking a calming breath through his nose his eyes trailed up the stairs to his bedroom. He was going to have to do something before Mrs. Hudson got back home to find her flat torn apart, or worse before Sherlock escaped and actually hurt some innocent bystander.

From the safety of his bedroom John phoned Mrs. Hudson. He knew it was rude to call someone when you knew they were on a date, but he couldn't risk her coming home early. Thankfully the sounds of the raging beast below were muffled by the door and floor boards. John waited patiently until Mrs. Hudson picked up.

“Hello?” Mrs. Hudson's not to pleased voice asked.

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry to call on your date but-”

“John? Hold on just a moment.” There was a rustling on the other and and then Mrs. Hudson was back. “John, are you still there, dear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, look Sherlock was doing an experiment, and well lets just say it's best if you didn't come back to the flat tonight.” On the other end Mrs. Hudson's panicked voice began to fuss about damage done to the flat. John had to think fast if he was going to quell her fears and keep her away. “No-no nothing like that. It's the gas you see, the flat it's a bit of a bio hazard. I wouldn't go back until it's properly aired out. I'm going to be at my sister's for a few days myself.” Regardless of how much of a poor liar Sherlock thought he was John was in fact very convincing when he was not facing the person he was lying to.

After some hurried good-byes John ended the call and went to his closet. Rummaging through an old ruck sack, in the far back of the space, he stood back with a metal gun safe in hand. Unlocking and opening the safe he produced a modified hand gun and a magazine of cartridges instead of bullets. Locking the magazine in the grip he switched off the safety and quietly made his trek back down stairs.

Things were quiet inside the flat, and for a moment John feared that Sherlock had escaped, but then he could make out the shuffling and breathing of an animal exploring its surroundings. John licked his lip nervously, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he reached for the door handle.

Everything went deathly silent and John froze, bronze knob in hand, as a low vibrating growl emanated from the other side of the door. John cursed mentally, he had been found out, likely Sherlock smelled him now. Another growl came from inside the flat, this time closer to the door that separated Sherlock and John. There was nothing for it then, the two flatmates were at a stalemate and the odds were on Sherlock's side with his enhanced senses and power. The only thing John had was skill and his wits.

Releasing his grip, John stepped back moving closer to the second flat door that lead to the kitchen. In one swift movement he turned and opened the door letting it swing open a bit before moving back to the main door.

Among bits of broken glass and porcelain on the floor a large shadow emerged to investigate the open doorway. John took that moment to open the main door, coming up behind the massive black furry back. He lifted his gun and squeezed off two rounds swiftly swinging back through the doorway and closing it behind him as the creature howled in pain. As he reached for the other door to block it off as well, it swung open. 

An angry mass of fur, teeth, and claws came roaring at John slamming him into the wall across the way. Winded John looked up to the looming maw snarling mere inches away from his face. Yellow eyes glinted furiously down at him before the color changed to a slate blue-gray. The werewolf's black eyelids drooped wearily before Sherlock slumped to the floor with a faint whine.

Trembling John slid down the wall finally able to voice his opinion over the whole mess. “Shit...”

  
  


John stood sentinel over the large, lean, furry body that was Sherlock Holmes. There was nothing for it, the werewolf was simply too big for John to move. So the man kept watch insuring that he was there when Sherlock woke up. Before he knew it the sun was rising, and the lycan on the floor shot awake making those horrid sounds; half animal, half human, and filled with agony. The sound of the transformation made John feel ill. It wasn't much different than listening to a solider dying while John was preforming surgery in the field in an attempt to save the man until they could get back to a medical facility.

Slowly the gurgling shouts and crunching of bones snapping back into a familiar form faded into languid wheezing breaths. John checked the spots where he had shot Sherlock with the tranquilizers to find two swollen and bruised pock marks along his lower ribs. They would be sore for a while but that was better than he or Sherlock turning up dead from the encounter.

Rolling over with a groan Sherlock lay prone on his back panting as his eyes adjusted and took in his surroundings. Eventually they landed on John and Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. “John? What the hell is going on?” With another sound of discomfort he sat up catching sight of his nude form. “Why am I naked?”

John watched as Sherlock's eyes frantically searched for what could have possibly lead him to this predicament. Before the detective could reach the point of panic John laid a sturdy hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder, drawing his attention. “I need you to take a moment, and tell me, what's the last thing you remember?”


	2. Chapter 2

“...What's the last thing you remember?”

It was asked in such a calm controlled voice as if John were asking him of symptoms to an illness so the doctor could diagnose it. John's voice had no right being that calm when Sherlock was near panicking. His body ached all over, and he felt as if someone had punched him in the kidneys. His head hurt, his mouth was dry, and his thoughts were muddled. What was he supposed to remember, he wondered. He knew that he hadn't taken anything medicinal. He began to wonder if he had been drugged, it would explain the headache and dry mouth.

John licked his lips watching Sherlock struggling with his thoughts. It was difficult seeing the man flounder so he decided to take a different approach. “Come on Sherlock, use that big head of yours and think. Last night we were in the flat, you said you weren't feeling well, and when I asked about it you got upset- defensive.”

He remembered that: he had been fighting off a cold for over a week, rest was hard to come by, and when he did sleep it was fraught with nightmares. He would wake up thrashing, or tangled in his sheets on the floor. Last night he felt his conditions getting worse; his eyes were sensitive to light and colors that were once vivid began to dull and blur, his ears picked up everything from Mrs. Hudson getting ready for her date to John's pecking at his laptop. Then there were the smells making his stomach churn. He could smell the sandwich shop downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's baking, even John's aftershave and shampoo. There was the garbage which was the worst of it. He thought he could pick out every distinct piece of rubbage from the empty milk carton to the last vestiges of his experiment on tree leaves. Sherlock's stomach gave a clinch similar to the one from last night.

It was him doubling over clutching his stomach in pain that drew John's attention to his () state the night before. John was questioning him about it, and he couldn't handle the questions and the sensations dividing his focus. He snapped, and everything felt ten times worse. After that it was as if he was in a fog, memories hoovered just below the surface of his mind but try as he might he could not bring them to the surface.

John instantly hated himself for asking as he watched the color bleed from Sherlock's face. Lost mercurial eyes stared blankly ahead as dread washed over Sherlock's features.

“I don't remember.” His voice trembled in fear the way it had when he first encountered the infamous hound of Baskerville. He could not remember, and that wasn't right. Sherlock's mind was a steel trap full of information, sometimes even the most trivial of things would get caught in his memories. So to think that he could not remember what had happened not even twenty four hours ago was unfathomable. 

A warm hand on his bare shoulder snapped him back to the present and out of his internal crisis. John's eyes were steady and warm as he gave Sherlock a somber smile. 

“Hey, it's alright.” John gave Sherlock's trembling shoulder a squeeze before he stood, stepping over the chaos in the kitchen to retrieve the duvet from Sherlock's bed.

'It's not alright,' Sherlock could feel himself wanting to say, echoing John's words from the Baskerville labs. Shivers were wracking his body and he felt stiff from being on the hard floor boards. The warmth of his comforter settling over him gave him little comfort as he saw the wreckage of their flat past the kitchen door. “What happened?”

John chewed his lip trying to decide how to enlighten Sherlock about his new condition without sounding mad himself, or frightening the man beyond the point he already was. How he wished he could lie convincingly, tell Sherlock there was nothing to worry about, and that they could go on living just the same as they always had. It would be cruel, but it would keep the detective from looking so small and lost in front of him if even for only a moment.

“You did,” he offered bluntly. There was no point in holding back, not with Sherlock. The man needed as much information as possible to fill in the blanks of what happened the night before. “You changed- changed into a werewolf.”

In seconds Sherlock's face turned from one of rapt focus to disgusted fury. He sneered and spat at John, outraged by the doctor's attempt at a sick joke. “Honestly, John if you are going to just mock me-”

“I'm not!” John snapped, effectively silencing Sherlock's tirade before lowering his voice to a reasonable level. “I'm not lying, and I swear to you that I wish I were.” His throat was tightening as he recalled the terror of seeing Sherlock tearing toward him in an attempt to take out the threat John posed.

“I would give anything for it not to be true, but the fact is that you, Sherlock Holmes transformed into a large beastly creature last night, and you went on a rampage- tearing apart the flat while I was left to figure out a way to incapacitate you.”

The conviction in John's voice stole his breath away, and Sherlock was forced to consider the impossibility of John's words. He needed evidence. Standing he turned to look into the disarray that was 221b. Eyes flicking from item to item he took in the proof that the flat offered; no signs of a forced entry, nothing was missing only displaced or destroyed, the floor paneling had deep grooves in them that looked suspiciously like claw marks, and there were scant strands of what appeared to be black dog hair floating about the room.

Taking a shuddering breath Sherlock turned back to find John watching him cautiously. How pathetic he must look standing there naked say for a blanket, his body trembling, and his knees buckling threatening to give out. When he spoke his voice sounded so small it made him wince. “This can't be happening. H-how are you taking this so well?”

Licking his lips John deliberated on what to say. “It's not easy to explain, but I've seen werewolves before, back in Afghanistan.”

His legs finally giving out Sherlock slid down the door frame his eyes going unfocused. It all had to be a dream, he was still sick in bed caught in the troughs f a nightmare, and any second he would wake up to forget all of this. At least that's what he hoped would happen because the longer he was there the more unhinged he felt.

John came to squat in front of him a gentle hand in his hair drew his attention, and he found himself looking into the eyes of Doctor Watson. “Look there's a lot more that I've got to tell you, but I think it best that you take a shower, and get dressed first.”

Sherlock went through the motions of taking a shower and getting dressed in a haze. He felt like the machine that John often teased him of being all jerky mechanical movements with no real thought behind what he was doing. His mind had switched itself off, unable to comprehend the reality he was in. His only focus was on John, and what information the man could possible have to tell him on werewolves. 

Werewolves, he mused. Even the word itself sounded like a joke, surely there was a better term for a half man half wolf hybrid even if no such thing actually existed. Sherlock took his seat across from John, and waited expectantly for him to begin his explanation.


End file.
